


Voices wake us, and we drown

by oddishly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fuck Or Die, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 21:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9090817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: Something is following.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quickreaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/gifts).



> Dearest quickreaver, I am so sorry this is so late. This fic was so much fun to write and I hope you enjoy it, too. Happy late holidays! <3

Sam’s being weird. They’ve spent the afternoon cleaning poltergeists out of a row of abandoned houses on a south Detroit street, just the kind of action they need after a long month chasing signs of their dad and fraudulent insurance claims around the Kentucky summer, and Dean’s the only one enjoying it.

He ducks behind an upturned table as a collection of dinner plates hurtle through the air towards his head in a stream of ugly blue and white china, grabs a teapot off the ground beside him and stands up to hurl it back. The poltergeist shrieks and cracks out of sight as the teapot breaks into shards against the wall.

Dean grimaces. They’re running out of kitchenware.

He turns to look at Sam, who’s hovering behind the island unit. “What’s up with you?”

Sam lowers the frying pan he’s been using to defend himself. “What?”

“You even know what we’re trying to kill here? Because there’s a poltergeist flying around--” Dean nods at the ceiling, now shaking with what sounds like a bedframe getting repeatedly dropped-- “trying to kill us.”

Sam looks from his thoroughly-dented frying pan and back to Dean. “Yeah, I got that.”

“Have you? You haven’t set foot out of that corner since we chased it in here. Seems like you’ve been too busy thinking about your hangover, or Missy, or Janie, or whatever that chick’s name was last night, to do your part saving the good people of Michigan from death by plates.”

Sam’s face shutters. “Whatever,” he says, and kneels to dig his shotgun out of the pile of shattered crockery at his feet. “I’m going to go finish it off, come with me or don’t.”

Dean follows, pleased with himself for waking Sam up even if it is just to be pissy at him, reloading his own rifle as he takes the stairs two at a time. 

They dispatch the poltergeist after a long battle at the top of the house, the fading light and murky glass of the attic window adding half an hour to their efforts. Dean claps Sam on the back as they traipse down the front steps and out to the car, sending a cloud of rubble dust into the evening. “I don’t blame you for being distracted, though,” he says, picking up the conversation from before. “That girl was pretty fuckin’ hot.”

He shoulders Sam when he doesn’t reply. “C’mon, give me some credit. Did I or did I not set you up good with her?”

“Yeah. Nice one, Dean, thanks. Real brotherly of you to shove me at her.”

Dean gives him up as a lost cause, getting comfortable behind the wheel. “Where to? I liked the look of that bar by the--”

“Chicago.”

“Yeah, tomorrow morning. But--”

“Let’s go now,” says Sam. “I don’t like it here. I’ll drive, if you want.”

Dean looks at Sam not looking at him. He’s instead watching the empty street in the rearview mirror, nothing but the houses they just de-poltergeisted and a long line of trees chalked at the bases to hold his attention. His jaw is set and his fingers are white, one hand grasping each knee, legs spread. 

Dean glances over his shoulder at the street. Not even a trashcan to look at, just the sunset turning the sidewalk grey and pink.

“Sure thing,” says Dean, and starts the engine. “But I’m driving.”

 

 

They stop at Fox Lake, 60 miles north of Chicago, and it’s nearing 2am by the time Sam finds them a place to sleep.

Dean slings his pack on the chest of drawers closest to him and tips face-first onto the bed, ignoring the shrill complaint of the bedsprings. He doesn’t bother undressing, but toes his boots onto the ground one after the other.

He opens an eye when he doesn’t hear the same thing happen from the other bed.

Sam is standing at the window with gun in hand, peering through an inch of space between the window frame and the blind. The sliver of light from outside shows a line of salt two inches thick along the windowsill. 

Dean struggles to open his other eye. “You know something I don’t, Sammy?”

Sam shakes his head. “Just checking.”

“Yeah and dad would be real proud of you. Go to sleep.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but Dean thinks the shape of his body relaxes, and he falls asleep before he needs to persuade Sam to lie down at least.

He wakes up in the late morning to a car alarm outside their window, the air in the room thick and stale. Sam is asleep on the next bed, tightly curled on top of the covers, looking like something hell threw up in the night. Dean grimaces, crossing the room to let some air in, and jumps when Sam materializes next to him at the window. 

“Morning, sunshine,” says Dean, eyeballing him. “You look like crap.”

“So do you,” Sam replies, peering through the plastic blinds at the lake. “But that’s not unusual.”

Dean scoffs and cuffs his ear. Sam ducks, smirking, and even manages to drag his eyes away from the window.

It looks like the clouds are lifting a little, he thinks as Sam goes to take a shower. But Sam’s out in under a minute, looking like he barely got wet. He pulls on the same clothes as yesterday and picks up his bag on his way past Dean to the door. “Ready?”

The door swings shut behind him. “Yeah,” says Dean to the empty room.

 

 

Sam directs Dean away from the motel, muttering about researching.

“Researching what?” says Dean. He taps Dad’s journal on Sam’s knee. “We literally have the book.”

“Just research,” says Sam. “Make a right here.”

The library is a squat building on the edge of town, all concrete and floor-to-ceiling windows that let the winter light pool across the floor. 

“Ah,” says Dean as they walk inside. “And by research, you meant staring out the window.”

Sam, already peering through the nearest one, doesn’t hear him.

Sam stays like that for over an hour as Dean scans the local paper. Neither of them says another word until the light through the windows turns from grey to orange, Dean’s fingers frozen from inactivity.

He clears his throat. “I’m hungry.” Sam startles and Dean ignores it instead of reaching out to touch his hand, or hair. “You ready for breakfast? Lunch? Food of any kind?”

“Yeah,” says Sam, appearing chastised, and even laughs when his stomach grumbles. 

“So,” says Dean as they leave the restaurant. The sun is sinking into the fields, Dean’s breath hanging in the air. “Back to the library? Drink? Movie?”

Sam hesitates. “There’s a movie theater on the other side of town.”

Sitting in the little indie theater he seems to calm down, even cracks a smile when Dean points out two teenagers on what looks like their first date ever and looks enthralled at the previews.

Dean makes it through twenty minutes watching a dad-type character drive across a bleak, grey city in Europe, and then subtitles appear as a blonde woman says the first lines of the movie.

“Sam,” Dean says in a low voice.

Sam leans in. His body is warm against Dean’s, hair trailing against Dean’s neck.

“It’s in _Bulgarian_.”

“It’s Czech, Dean.”

Sam pulls away and Dean tries not to react at the loss as he looks around the room. The theater is mostly empty and there’s no one close enough to care that Dean’s said four words over the subtitles.

“Okay,” says Sam. His gaze is fixed on the fire escape. “Let’s go.”

Dean’s hand stops halfway from popcorn bag to his mouth. “Really?”

“Yeah really. Let’s go.” Sam glances around the theater again, shoulders hunched.

“Let me guess,” says Dean, and nods to the exit on the other side of the theater. “That way?”

Sam turns away, expression stricken in the flickering grey-blue light of the movie.

“Gonna have to tell me what’s going on sometime,” says Dean loudly at his back, and doesn’t care about any of the three people that turn and glare at him.

 

 

Sometimes it feels like they’re crisscrossing the country doing catch-up work. Twenty miles west of Fox Lake is a family of spirits that their dad never managed to eradicate fully, always one more vengeful grandparent or cousin showing up just when it seems like they’ve found all the bone shavings and lockets of hair left behind by two murderous siblings. This time it’s a half-uncle, three separate reports from people he’d gone to school with confirming the man seen tending graves in the cemetery shouldn’t have been anywhere but rotting underneath it. 

They can’t find the uncle, but decide to wait another hour in case of any other malevolent family members hanging around.

They drive back to the graveyard in silence to look for the malevolent spirit, and, walking towards each other from opposite corners, Dean sees something fade through the wall of the groundskeeper’s building.

He gets Sam’s attention and holds him still with a palm on his back, watching for an indication of where the spirit is going to end up. A light flickers on at a second-floor window.

Sam picks up an unwieldy metal gardening rake from the ground, raising his eyebrows over it at Dean. “Iron?”

Dean shrugs. “Worth a try.” 

He keeps his finger on the trigger as he walks inside. It’s a weird combination of office and gardening shed, a desk in the corner with an ancient desktop computer, screen flickering and static, and soil stacked in sandbags against the wall. The stairs are carpeted in astroturf. Dean shakes his head.

They take the stairs as quietly as their steel-toed boots allow. Sam nudges the door at the top open with his leaf rake and the spirit is there, standing at the window on the other side of the a distressingly over-furnished bedroom.

“Window,” says Dean grimly, at the same time as Sam says, “can you--”

Sam is staring out and down the stairs, ignoring the ghost that’s reaching translucent fingers toward him. He turns too slowly at Dean’s shout, and it’s like Dean’s watching it in slow motion.

“Move!” shouts Dean. He knocks Sam to the side and then rolls inside the room as the long-dead uncle does its zippy incorporeal thing through two sofas and another desk, right side of his face grotesquely disfigured by knife wounds, enraged and wielding his own ghostly gardening equipment against them.

Sam looks towards the door again and howls in pain when the spirit takes advantage of his distraction. Dean lunges towards a pair of gardening gloves lying in an open wooden box, knocking the lot off the windowsill and salting and burning the gloves before they’ve even hit the floor.

The uncle goes up in flames and then everything is still, the room empty save him and Dean’s idiot brother who’s white as a sheet, breathing heavily a couple feet away.

“Really, Sam? If that’s how you want to go, just say the word and I’ll get out of the way next time,” snaps Dean, struggling for breath.

Sam clenches his fingers around his leg to control the bleeding caused by the ghost. “I’m sorry, I--”

“I don’t need you to say sorry, I need you to keep your head! I’m not going to lose you to some common spirit.”

Sam’s expression changes, eyes widening.

“What?”

Sam doesn’t seem able to speak. He points past Dean’s shoulder. “Behind you.”

Dean spins but the spirit vanishes before he sees it. He’s faced with an empty wall. 

“There shouldn’t be any of them left,” he says. “What did it look like?” He grips the rake tighter, wishing this was a normal house with a fireplace and an easy-to-wield poker. 

“It’s right--” 

Dean wheels around, but sees nothing. “No, it--”

“For fuck’s--” Sam stops. His voice changes. “Dad?”

Dean freezes, some horrible combination of dread and yearning sinking through his body, because if Dad’s here then he’s either working the same case as them or he’s--

Dean makes himself look back out towards the stairs and can’t see anything except broken furniture in the way. “Where?”

“He’s there,” says Sam, voice thick. “Can’t you--Dad?”

Dean’s breathing is coming heavy. He takes a step forward, blinking to clear his vision. “I don’t--I can’t see him,” he says, frustrated. “Dad?”

The room is quiet and still, nothing moving but the remaining curtain, idle in the gentle breeze.

Dean turns again. “I don’t see him.”

Sam’s face turns sickly green. As if he can’t feel his bleeding leg, he rolls to his feet and heaves the edge of the sofa around, a low screech of metal on stone, and scrambles to the open window, slipping out of it without a care for the drop.

“ _Sam!_ ” Dean yells. He drops the rake and vaults the sofa, sticking his head out of the window just in time to see the plastic guttering five feet below snap, Sam dropping to the ground and narrowly missing a stone wall alongside the building. He hits the ground curled into a tight ball.

“What the fuck, Sam?” Dean hollers down, bewildered, heart hammering. He looks over his shoulder but the room is still. Empty. “You--there’s nothing here! Christ! Dad’s not here!”

Sam gets to his feet with the aid of the wall that nearly brained him, staggering a little and grasping the arm that took the brunt of his fall. He looks at Dean, then the windows directly below. “I--I’m going back to the house,” he shouts, just loud enough for Dean to hear. His voice is thin. “Find me along the way.”

Dean swears as Sam sets off in an unsteady run, limping as he goes. He sets off back through the house, hurdling upturned furniture and nearly falling down the stairs in his haste.

He drives over a mile before he catches up with Sam, stumbling along the edge of the road, almost fading into it with the descending mist.

Dean leans over to open the passenger door, foot still easy on the gas to keep up.

Sam jumps in and Dean floors it. He drives past main street, past the motel and the grocery store beyond it, and gets onto the freeway towards the mountains. 

 

 

“It was the girl,” says Sam, staring not at the view but at his feet. His face is drawn and nervous, bitter night air pinching his cheeks. He hasn’t looked at Dean since getting in the car. “Lacey, from the other night. She, uh. There was something following her.”

They’re pulled over at a rest stop off the road but Dean’s mind is still racing. “Something … we’d be into?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. “Something we’d be into.”

A moth flies past, drawn to the headlights, and Dean jumps. He gives himself a shake. 

Sam doesn’t notice. “I tried to find out what it was. Like. I could tell there was something even before we--you know.”

Dean’s stomach is in knots, but he smirks, because it’s still funny. “Before you _you know_ ,” he repeats.

“Before we had sex. She was nervous, agitated. Kept looking over my shoulder. I nearly stopped, but she--”

He falters.

“She climbed on board?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. When Dean glances over, Sam’s expression is grim.

The moon is bright above them, the city flickering cool and yellow below. Dean watches the shadows moving across Sam’s face as he tips his head this way and that, the clean line of his nose and the thin, ridiculous eyebrows that look like a girl’s. The hollows beneath his eyes are stark. Dean feels a deep sense of foreboding.

“So what sort of thing are we talking about? A siren, or some sort of shapeshifter?”

“I don’t know. Neither of those, I got two silver bullets in its head when I thought it was--someone else, before, and it got right back up again and kept walking.”

Dean’s breath is short. “Who did it look like?”

There’s a sudden extra inch of glossy black metal between them that hadn’t been before. “You.”

Dean’s fingers slip along the hood of the car. “Glad you got the right one of us.” What he really wants to know is why Sam hadn’t mentioned this before, how he’d been planning on dealing with this by himself.

“Yeah,” says Sam, still not looking at him. “But that didn’t stop it. It’s following me.”

“How do you--”

“I just know, ok? Lacey told me, after--after, and then she showed it to me to prove it. And now it’s following me. And it’ll follow me until it gets me or until…”

“Until what?”

“Until I sleep with someone else. Then it follows them.”

“And what happens then?”

Sam is quiet for a long while. “It fucks them to death,” he finally says. “And it goes back to following me again.”

Dean stares, looking for any glimmer of a joke. This should be the best kind of ghost story. But the hollows under Sam’s eyes are real.

“Well, fuck,” says Dean, quietly. His skin is cold and prickling.

They look over the city together in silence.

 

 

Dean drives them back to Detroit in time for the sunrise. No supernatural thing is faster than Dean’s car, and he figures it gives them a good three days to research, and to find Sam’s hook-up and force her to talk, before the thing--the whatever it is that’s wearing Dean’s face--can catch up. Then they can go back and find the spirit’s nail clippings, or whatever it is that’s left of him.

“It’s very slow, but it’s not dumb,” Sam says as they drive, sentences measured between the long minutes of headlights flooding past. “It walks towards you.”

The face of the next driver approaches and then passes. Dean lets out a breath.

“It can’t drive, can it?”

“No.” Sam hesitates. “I can’t always tell if it’s the thing or if it’s someone else. It’s usually a stranger but sometimes it looks like people that you love. Like dad. Or you. Just to hurt you.”

“Jess?” says Dean, after a long moment spent trying to decide whether or not he should. 

Sam nods.

Dean drives them back to the same place they’d squatted in before, a ramshackle house on the corner. There’s a garage and a backyard and three doors to get out of the house if they’re downstairs and a narrow wooden balcony if they’re upstairs, and the club he found that girl in is within hearing distance at the weekend.

“All right, Sammy,” he says once he’s hacked his way back into the neighbor’s wifi, the same wooden coaster still shoved under the kitchen table to stop it from wobbling. “Put your research hat on. Supernatural STDs, let’s go.”

 

 

Dean can’t find anything that Sam hasn’t already found and discarded. His hunch that it’s some siren curse that can be passed on looks unsupported, never recorded. He can’t find any recorded information on sex spirits or witches’ covens in the locale from forty or forty-five years ago, and no supernatural activity that doesn’t relate to the gaggle of poltergeists they’ve already dealt with. It doesn’t mean any of that is impossible, but it still means they’re at a big fat zero, and every time Dean looks at Sam, he starts calculating the time it might take to walk from where they’d been to where they’re at now. He’s taken to looking over his shoulder, feeling a creeping sensation like someone’s just behind him.

They return to the club from before on Friday night and stand in line, their best and only bet. Dean notices at least two girls he recognizes from last week but neither of them are the one he pushed Sam into sleeping with, the one who gave Sam yet another death sentence, as if he didn’t already have enough demons.

He buys Sam a beer, which seems like the least he can do. When they’re both three drinks in, leaning against graffitied tile by the bar, Sam finally stands straighter and says, “That’s her.”

Dean lets go his arm. “Go get her.”

“You don’t want to talk to her?”

“Nope,” says Dean, carefully avoiding looking in the same direction as Sam is so he doesn’t know who to kill. He can’t afford to. They’re going to stall the monster and this girl is going to help. 

He leaves the club shortly after and drives back to their squat. Sam doesn’t need him to babysit, to tell him what questions to ask the girl or how to pick up someone else to give them time before he’s followed and dies a gory death.

Dean tosses and turns through the night, dreams veering into nightmares every time he opens his eyes, and finally wakes up long before dawn colors the morning.

He paces in front of the living room window for an hour like a ghost trapped there for eternity before a taxi stops in the street and Sam tips out of the passenger side, his whole body displaying exhaustion and misery. Dean’s heart picks up.

He grabs the keys and meets Sam halfway through the yard, bags slung over either shoulder.

Sam doesn’t acknowledge him other than to reach for his bag. He’s got sex hair and a lipstick smudge on his cheek, and his shirt is buttoned up wrong. Dean decides not to look at the bruise that’s beginning to turn under his collar.

They get inside the Impala and Sam tips his head against the passenger window, eyes closed to the dirty fog on the other side. 

“You did what you had to do,” says Dean, and looks over his shoulder compulsively.

“Just drive,” says Sam.

Dean pulls away and into the morning.

 

 

Sam jolts awake when Dean gives him a shake. “Where are we,” he mumbles, and frowns at the sound of the water on the shore.

“Far,” says Dean. “Relax. Nothing to worry about any more.”

They’re actually at a little beach on the side of the lake, breeze hushed and waves lapping against the sand. Dean’s managed to find two beach chairs and a picnic blanket in an abandoned vacation home, and he leads Sam over and drops a six pack of beer and his keys on the blanket.

Sam looks like shit now that Dean can see him in daylight. It’s gonna take a bit, but he’ll be fine, Dean knows. The vice around his lungs releases. They’ve got time.

“SPF 50,” he says to Sam, and tosses over the sunscreen. “Just because you’ve escaped one early death doesn’t mean you can risk another.”

Sam shakes his head, but he applies the sunscreen to all his exposed areas. Dean knocks back the beach chair three notches so he’s nearly lying flat, and watches from under his sunglasses.

Sam sets the bottle down carefully at his feet and settles back in the lounger. 

“Figured we deserved a bit of beach time,” says Dean. He cracks his beer. “Dunno about you, but--”

“I couldn’t do it,” says Sam, gaze fixed on the distant haze.

Dean sits up. “Come again?”

“I tried, but. The girl, Lacey. She was really scared, and after I talked to her I couldn’t do it to someone else, either.” Sam’s voice trails off. He looks miserable. “I’m sorry.”

Dean waits until he’s sure--mostly sure--that he can maintain a level tone of voice, then says, “I’m not mad. I wouldn’t be able to do it either.”

The water is still and clear as glass, nothing to see but the washed out blue of the sky. 

Sam’s eyes are fixed past him again, horror dawning on his face, and when Dean looks behind him he sees a kid toddling in the distance with a sand bucket and spade.

“The kid? I see him. He’s real.”

Sam visibly relaxes.

Dean draws a long, slow breath, and he picks a spot on the horizon to focus on, a rowing boat or something else that people use in freshwater lakes when they’re not trying to save Sam Winchester from a brutal, terrible death. He says, “Give it to me.”

“Huh?”

Dean grimaces. Of all the times. “You said you get rid of it by giving it to someone else. Well I’m someone.”

Sam stares at him.

Dean flips down his sunglasses and lies back in his chair. “Just saying,” he shrugs. 

 

 

It’s the perfect temperature to doze off in, a silent breeze playing across Dean’s skin to keep it comfortable. He relaxes in the chair and watches from under the brim of his hat as Sam splashes into the water with the inner tube. 

He’s trying to so hard to prove to Sam that he’s relaxed that he nearly does fall asleep, thinking about ways to catch the thing when Sam’s the only one who can see it and it’s not put off by salt or iron.

He opens his eyes when Sam says something from the water, his voice making it to Dean with the assistance of the breeze.

“What’s up, Sammy?” he says in reply, lifting his hat just enough to squint Sam’s way. 

Sam looks happy, smiling warmly at the shore. His long, skinny body is all lazy and sprawling in the inner tube, idly kicking his legs in the water. Safe under his hat, Dean lets himself look.

“Dean?” says Sam. Looking twenty feet to the left of where Dean actually is.

“Sam,” Dean yells, scrambling out of his deckchair, beer bottles flying everywhere. “Get out of the water, that’s not me!”

Sam tips out of the tube and starts swimming. Dean grabs the keys from the sand and runs for the Impala, starting the engine as Sam reaches the shore and takes off running through the woods lining the beach, barefoot across the rough earth.

Dean floors it to catch up, leaning to open the passenger door as soon as he gets within reach of Sam. “In!” he shouts, and Sam hurls himself inside, pulling the door shut after him as Dean spins them away.

 

 

It should have been a day at least, but somehow it had caught up to them.

Dean drives them three hours west into Iowa, stops for gas and keeps going. They eventually stop somewhere along a river on the east side of Nebraska, late into the night.

Sam is still dressed in a blanket from the back seat and the boxer briefs he’d been swimming in, asleep against his window with Dean’s jacket for a pillow. Dean leaves the engine running for a long moment while he looks at him. Then he turns it off, and Sam wakes up.

“Where are we?”

“Nebraska.” Dean gestures around them at the parking structure that had looked as good as anywhere to stop in. There aren’t any other cars on their level, but the lot is floodlit on all sides except the four-storey drop in front of them. “Didn’t know if you’d want to find a place with a real bed, or what.”

“Here’s good,” says Sam at once. He looks all around them and slumps back down again, apparently finding nothing. “For now.”

“For now,” repeats Dean. 

Sam doesn’t react other than to pull the blanket up.

“Sam,” says Dean. He’s been thinking about this for the last 500 miles, trying to work out how to say it, and he still has no idea.

He stares at his hands on the steering wheel, pale in the light of the overheads.

Sam reaches and pulls on Dean’s arm until he looks at him. He leaves his hand on Dean’s arm, searching his face, then says, “Okay,” and leans in and presses their mouths together.

Dean’s first response is to still, frozen in place as Sam kisses him.

Then he’s gripping onto Sam, fingers wrapped around his arm just under his elbow, and he’s tilting his head into it and kissing Sam back, there in the empty lot. 

Sam’s mouth opens under his.

Dean tries to breathe as Sam gets his fingers in his hair and tugs him in, pushing his tongue into Dean’s mouth. It’s everything at once and Dean wants it all. He drags Sam in, shoving the blanket down and yanking him closer, awkward as all fuck in the car but unwilling to let go.

“I--Dean--” says Sam in a moan, and pushes against Dean’s chest, kissing him and saying, “Are you sure, are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” says Dean, kissing him through it and guiding Sam’s hands down to his own shirt to drag it up. “Sure as sure, I’ll. We’ll. I’ll fuck you, and then--then.”

“Then you’ll fuck someone else,” says Sam, his fingers suddenly sharp against Dean’s body. He reaches for Dean’s jeans, yanking them open and kissing his neck, the top of his shoulder. “And then--”

“Then,” Dean agrees, and finds Sam’s mouth again.

Dean swears when Sam reaches into his jeans to wrap a hand around his cock, head pressed against Dean’s chest. “Sam,” he says. “Sam, Sam--”

He fumbles for the door with one hand and it opens behind him, tipping Dean halfway out onto the concrete.

“Get out, come on,” he says, and pulls Sam with him out of the car. Sam stands and falls back against the door, dragging Dean up close to kiss him and run his hands across him. 

“You gotta be sure, too,” says Dean into his neck, one hand in Sam’s boxers. “No way back from this.”

“I’m sure,” says Sam. He pushes his cock up into Dean’s hand, hard and slick. “I’ve _been_ sure.”

Dean doesn’t have an answer to that, can’t go near the thought without coming, or crying at how much he fucked up his brother.

“Okay,” he says. He stops jerking Sam’s cock to shove his jeans down. “You ever done this before?”

“Once,” says Sam. The overheads cast a sickly glow across his skin, shadows sharpening the worry he’s trying to hide from Dean. “It hurt.”

Dean feels a flush of anger. “Then he did it wrong,” he says. “Whoever it was.”

He holds Sam where he is against the door with a palm on his chest, and leans through the open window to get lube from the glove compartment. He picks up the blanket crumpled on Sam’s seat and pulls that out as well, pulling it between Sam’s naked back and the car and wrapping it around him. He thumbs Sam’s boxers down underneath it.

“You’re cold,” he says in answer to Sam’s raised eyebrows. “Quit complaining.”

Sam swallows and says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” says Dean in the same voice. Then, quietly, “Spread your legs.”

Sam flushes the full length of his body as Dean opens him on his fingers. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Done this before,” says Sam. His gaze skates around the parking lot and back to Dean.

“Yeah,” Dean lies. “Ready?”

He loses his breath on the first push in. Sam’s mouth is open, red and wet, and he doesn’t look away from Dean. His cock bumps up against Dean’s stomach.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” says Sam. “Move.”

Dean fucks into him as hard as he dares. Sam is standing at an uncomfortable angle, legs bent a little, back curved against the car, but his eyes are dark and he moans a little with Dean’s every thrust.

“Sam,” says Dean, fucking into him, the car rocking with Sam’s body. His fist is tight around Sam’s dick. “Sammy--”

Sam gets louder, then bites his lip when it echoes around them.

“Don’t,” says Dean, kissing his neck.

Sam keeps his gaze fixed on Dean. Dean thinks, and immediately tries to forget, that he’s thinking of the monster, and wondering if Dean is Dean.

“It’s me,” he says, thrusting in harder, letting himself have this now. “Your better-looking brother.”

Sam swears and then he’s coming, swearing and biting Dean’s shoulder and imploring for him to as well. Dean comes in a haze of relief.

Sam is covered in a sweat when Dean pulls out.

“Are you okay?”

“Dude,” says Sam. He tugs the blanket tighter around his shoulders, straightening his back, then looks at Dean with his old expression. “I’m okay,” he says. “If I wasn’t okay, I wouldn’t still want to--kiss you this much.”

With a superhuman effort, Dean manages not to look around the parking lot for whatever it is that’s coming for him, now. He puts on a face. “I’m very attractive,” he says to Sam. “I’d want to kiss me, too.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Sam, rolling his eyes.

They get their clothes on again, Sam going around to the trunk for jeans to replace those still in Illinois. Dean takes the opportunity to eye the parking lot for monsters of any description, but all he can see is concrete and the trees waving in the darkness below.

“Hey,” says Sam. He’s inside the car again, leaning through to talk through Dean’s open window. “Let’s go.”

Dean gets in. They sit together in silence. 

Sam reaches over, a little hesitant, and puts his hand flat on Dean’s thigh. Dean’s skin prickles. “Is this. I mean. Are we good, and everything?”

“Course,” says Dean, meaning it. He looks at Sam. “We’ll find a way to stop it. We’ll trap it, somehow, and now we can both see it.”

“Can you?” says Sam, sharply.

“No,” says Dean. “Chill, Sam. It’s 600 miles away and walking. But we’ll both be ready for it, when we work out how to stop it.”

Sam nods and grimaces. “But first you’ll find someone else.”

“Yeah,” says Dean, stomach churning at the thought. But it’s Dean’s fault anyway, and some girl means nothing when Sam’s life is the price. 

They stare out through the windshield and over the edge of the parking lot together.

“Let’s go,” says Sam at last in the dark, and they drive on.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [It Follows](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt3235888/).


End file.
